The Nabob eBook

He set himself to work, therefore, hurried on his
business with an activity which nothing could discourage,
neither Oriental discursiveness—­that refined
fair-spoken politeness, under which is hidden ferocity—­nor
coolly indifferent smiles, nor averted looks, invoking
divine fatalism when human lies fail. The self-possession
of this southerner, in whom was condensed, as it were,
all the exuberance of his compatriots, served him
as well as his perfect knowledge of French law, of
which the Code of Tunis is only a disfigured copy.

By his diplomacy and discretion, in spite of the intrigues
of Hemerlingue’s son—­who was very
influential at the Bardo—­he succeeded in
withdrawing from confiscation the money lent by the
Nabob some months before, and to snatch ten millions
out of fifteen from Mohammed’s rapacity.
The very morning of the day on which the money was
to be paid over, he received from Paris the news of
the unseating of Jansoulet. He hurried at once
to the Palace to arrive there before the news, and
on his return with the ten millions in bills on Marseilles
secure in his pocket-book, he passed young Hemerlingue’s
carriage, with his three mules at full gallop.
The thin owl’s face was radiant. De Gery
understood that if he remained many hours at Tunis
his bills ran the risk of being confiscated, so took
his place at once on an Italian packet which was sailing
next morning for Genoa, passed the night on board,
and was only easy in his mind when he saw far behind
him white Tunis with her gulf and the rocks of Cape
Carthage spread out before her. On entering Genoa,
the steamer while making for the quay passed near
a great yacht with the Tunisian flag flying. De
Gery felt greatly excited, and for a moment believed
that she had come in pursuit of him, and that on landing
he might be seized by the Italian police like a common
thief. But the yacht was swinging peacefully at
anchor, her sailors cleaning the deck or repainting
the red siren of her figurehead, as if they were expecting
someone of importance. Paul had not the curiosity
to ask who this personage was. He crossed the
marble city, and returned by the coast railway from
Genoa to Marseilles—­that marvellous route
where one passes suddenly from the blackness of the
tunnels to the dazzling light of the blue sea.

At Savona the train stopped, and the passengers were
told that they could go no farther, as one of the
little bridges over the torrents which rush from the
mountains to the sea had been broken during the night.
They must wait for the engineer and the break-down
gang, already summoned by telegraph; wait perhaps
a half day. It was early morning. The Italian
town was waking in one of those veiled dawns which
forecast great heat for the day. While the dispersed
travellers took refuge in the hotels, installed themselves
in the cafes, and others visited the town,
de Gery, chafing at the delay, tried to think of some
means of saving these few hours. He thought of